


Something to Somebody

by KittieHill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "The Talk", Awkward Sexual Situations, BAMF John Watson, Clueless John, Cuddles, Dancing, Death (not major character), Embarrassment, First Kiss, Flustered Mycroft, Frottage, Homeless Sherlock (Past), John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, Lestrade is a good friend, M/M, More of Sherlock's past, Mycroft gets told, Mycroft's Meddling, Nervous Sherlock, Orgasms, Pining Sherlock, Rated Explicit for further chapters, SMUT!, Sad Sherlock, Sex Talk, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock at a disco, Sherlock is confused, Sherlock's Past, They certainly both love Sherlock lots, They make up though, Virgin Sherlock, WIP, Warning! May make you cry, Wet Dream, Young Sherlock, come in pants
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-11 15:37:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10468347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: “Say it,” Sherlock requested softly, speaking into the crease of Not-John's neck.“I love you,” Not-John said in a whisper.“Say it again,” Sherlock pleaded, his eyes flooding with tears.“I love you, Sherlock. I love you,” Not-John replied turning to press a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.Beta'd by the wonderful Goddess of the Night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story because I was depressed and felt like I was useless. It's a WIP and I'll probably go back to it everytime I feel the same way. I have no structured timeline of when it will be finished. 
> 
> Please comment! Thank you.

Sherlock walked into the room, head low and eyes raking across the man. He looked the same as usual: same blonde-grey tousled hair and oatmeal coloured jumper over jeans and brogues, under that would be a vest and the Marks and Spencer pants which had been bought specifically for the purpose. Sherlock nodded his agreement and walked towards the comfortable bed in the corner of the room, shedding his coat and throwing it towards the sofa.

The room was airy, bright with sunshine flooding through the west-facing windows to illuminate the basic beige walls and cream coloured carpet. Dull really. A half-bloomed Lily flower stood in a thin vase, an oversized clock on the wall.

“How are you?” The other man asked, head tilted as he joined Sherlock at the bed.

“Don't speak,” Sherlock insisted.

The other man nodded, mouth closed tight as he lay flat on the bed, his head on the pillows and his arms open wide. Sherlock sighed, taking out the money from his pocket and placing it on the bedside table before curling up, his head on the man's shoulder and his hands stroking the woollen jumper as he relaxed.

Twenty minutes passed, noises from the rooms next door which should have titillated or aroused were irritating to Sherlock who tried to block it all out, tried to imagine he was back in Baker Street and this was all real. The man below him was a sad replica of the man he really wanted, chosen for his body shape and natural blonde hair, but everything else was wrong. The Not-John didn't smell like John, he didn't sound like John, with the slight twang of various accents when John got angry or tired. Not-John didn't swear like John, didn't laugh like John, but he was the closest Sherlock could find.

“Say it,” Sherlock requested softly, speaking into the crease of Not-John's neck.

“I love you,” Not-John said in a whisper.

“Say it again,” Sherlock pleaded, his eyes flooding with tears.

“I love you, Sherlock. I love you,” Not-John replied turning to press a kiss on Sherlock's forehead.

The kiss wasn't part of the deal, not what they had agreed, but Not-John (or Mark, as he was known to everybody else) felt his heart break each and every time Sherlock visited. Mark had been escorting for a few years, originally to pay his way through uni but eventually because it was good money and easy hours, but these were the customers that hurt. Not the rough ones, or the smelly ones. It was the lonely ones.

“I love you, John,” Sherlock responded, voice wobbling with emotion.

“Hush now,” Mark whispered, running a hand up and down Sherlock's spine, “I've got you.”

Sherlock's tears soaked into the wool of the jumper he had searched high and low for. John only had the one, but it was Sherlock's favourite and after thinking of this scheme, Sherlock had hunted for the garment, contacting sellers and manufacturers until he found someone who owned some which had been forgotten at the back of a warehouse in 2004. Sherlock had bought them and given two to Not-John before bringing some home to Baker Street to fill John's wardrobe with.

Sherlock relaxed and curled his fingers in tighter, imagining how it would feel to have the real John beside him. There had been times, during stake-outs or late nights that they had fallen asleep close to each other; close enough for Sherlock to watch the fluttering of John's lashes as he slept and the occasional soft sigh as he smiled in his sleep, but Sherlock could never get this close. Not as close as he wanted.

A noise.

Startling and loud, shouting and cursing.

Before Mark could sit up, before Sherlock could even react, a person walked through the door.

“This is a raid,” a familiar voice, a sick feeling in Sherlock's stomach, “stay where you are.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock whispered, eyes panicked as he flicked his eyes up to look directly at Greg who was stunned and staring back at his consulting detective.

“This one's empty,” Greg said, putting his arm across the room to stop anybody else entering, “Move along.”

“Sir, we should still process the area...” Anderson's voice, weasel-like.

“I said next room!” Lestrade shouted, sending his minions scurrying as he glared at Sherlock and the man still lying shocked and frozen below him.

Sherlock blushed, embarrassment and horror flooding through him as he looked out the window: a fire escape. Brilliant.

Greg seemed to see Sherlock's thoughts and nodded, closing the door behind him whilst Not-John gathered up his belongings and threw open the window.

“This was supposed to be safe!” Mark hissed, pointing at the door, “Did he know you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted before shaking his head, “it's still an illegal brothel.”

Mark climbed from the window, pocketing the money Sherlock had left before nodding and beginning his journey, leaving Sherlock too despondent to follow.

* * *

 

John grinned at his phone as he walked towards the pub, tonight was curry and quiz night at his local and he was meeting Greg for a catch up. Cases had been quiet which had allowed them some time to meet up for a pint and a chat, something he needed because Sherlock had been acting stranger than usual lately.

Pushing open the door to the pub, he breathed in the smell of the curry and ale, seeing Greg gesturing to a waiting pint. Grinning, John walked over and joined his friend who was sitting fiddling with a beer mat.

“Hello,” John smiled.

“Evening,” Greg responded, not quite able to meet John's eye.

He just kept seeing the man on the bed, dressed in John's clothes with his arms around Sherlock.

“You alright?” John asked, taking a gulp of his bitter and groaning, “Lovely.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine…thanks, how are you?” Greg replied, “How’s Sherlock?”

“I'm fine, clinic has been busy which is good. Sherlock is... _ quiet _ . Not sure what's going on,” John admitted with a shrug, “he hasn't really left his room in three days.”

“Yeah...” Greg trailed off “I – I might know why.”

“Oh?” John asked, raising an eyebrow, “Nothing bad, I hope.”

“Erm…well…no…well…yes…sort of,” Greg grimaced before rubbing at his face, “It's quite a – difficult story. Some of it you might not want to know but – well – you're his best friend and I think – I think you should be the one to raise it with him.”

“Shit, what's happened?” John asked, clearly concerned.

“We busted a brothel. In Chelsea,” Greg explained, “Top of the line, no expense spared sort of place. All tastefully decorated and discreet…just not discreet  _ enough _ .”

“Right...” John trailed off, “Did Sherlock work on the case?”

“Hmm? Oh er…no. But he  _ was _ there,” Lestrade added with a clearing of his throat, “with someone.”

“Sherlock?” John laughed, “That's not possible.”

“It is, and it was,” Greg replied, tilting his head and lowering his voice, “I hid him, let him slip out the back door…shit, no not that. That sounds crude. I mean: he went down the fire escape.”

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes?” John was shocked, “Was with a prostitute?”

“John…there's something else,” Greg added with an embarrassed wince, “and I wasn't sure if I should tell you this bit. The bloke…the prostitute, I mean…he…well…he was dressed...” Greg breathed out.

“What? How? In drag? He was wearing a costume? Oh god, it wasn't one of those furries was it?” John blinked, “A clown costume?”

Greg flinched and looked away before finally meeting John's eye, “He was dressed as you.”

“Me?” John blinked rapidly shifting his posture, “What do you mean?”

“I mean he was dressed as you. It was spooky, he was wearing the same jeans and brogues and I swear it was the exact same jumper you have,” Lestrade explained, “Same hair colour.”

“This doesn't make sense,” John replied, shaking his head, “I don't understand.”

“I wanted you to talk to him. I don't know what it means but – he's using prostitutes, which means he could also be using drugs again. I'm not sure. I don't know, but I didn't have a chance to speak to him at the scene and he's not responding to my calls or texts,” Greg sighed, taking a drink of his pint, “He might open up to you.”

“Right…” John said before looking around, “I don't think I'll stay for the quiz. I should – see Sherlock.”

“Yeah,” Greg nodded, “Yeah, I agree.”

* * *

The walk home was difficult and John felt the pressure on his shoulders. Sherlock was – what? Using prostitutes who looked like him? Why?

Standing at the black door, John leaned his head against the cool wood before pushing his key into the lock and opening the door. Mrs. Hudson had left to see her sister so the flat was in darkness as he walked up the stairs and knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door.

“Sherlock?” John asked softly, his voice obviously showing signs of nervousness due to the reaction from Sherlock's room which immediately went silent.

“I'm busy,” Sherlock's voice resonated through the wood.

“Can I come in?” John asked, rubbing his hands together nervously, “I think we need to talk.”

“About what?” Sherlock replied, “We have nothing to talk about.”

“I think we do,” John said strongly, “I'll be in my chair.”

Attempting to stop his hands shaking, John walked into the living room, toeing off his shoes and hanging up his coat on the way so he could relax in his chair, facing Sherlock's leather one. Minutes dragged by, ten then fifteen, before the door to Sherlock's room creaked open and tentative footsteps made their way to the doorway of the living room.

“Can we not simply forget it? It won't happen again,” Sherlock said, looking down at the floor nervously.

“Sit down,” John insisted, his voice brokering no arguments.

“John,” Sherlock gulped, eyes flicking around the room, “Please, let’s not do this. Please.”

“Sit. Down,” John once more said, eyes hard at Sherlock who seemed to sag and then walk slowly towards his seat, slouching down in the leather.

“Lestrade told me,” John began, clearing his throat and looking embarrassed, “about the bust.”

“I thought he might,” Sherlock answered, attempting to be haughty, “but it's _ my _ business. Nobody else's. I am an adult.”

“Yes, you are,” John agreed, “but I think you know why it's also  _ my _ business.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Sherlock lied, not very convincingly.

“The man. The...prostitute. He was...dressed like me?” John asked, clearing his throat once more and fiddling with his thumb.

Sherlock's face blazed red; he hadn’t thought that Greg would tell John that part. He had expected a bollocking from John for putting himself in that position, but not for the man's appearance.

“That's...personal,” Sherlock blushed.

“Why Sherlock?” John whispered, “Why was he dressed like me?”

“I have a wool fetish,” Sherlock responded sarcastically.

“Sherlock,” John sighed, rubbing his temples.

“It's a real thing,” Sherlock shrugged.

“But not the real reason,” John argued before trying again, “You should get tested.”

“There's no need,” Sherlock grumbled, eyes flicking to the mantle to stare at the skull who seemed to be mocking him.

“If you've been seeing prostitutes, then you need to have a full screening. Some are not always truthful on the safe-sex policies,” John lectured, “I did a stint in sexual health medicine.”

“John,” Sherlock barked, “I told you, this is none of your concern. I appreciate that you are trying to be my keeper, but I do not require a lecture. I am a grown man.”

“Then act like one!” John shouted, slamming his hands down on the arms of the chair, “Be responsible for once in your bloody life.”

“I don't have sex with him,” Sherlock answered calmly but his eyes looked as though they were sparkling with tears, “I don't have sex with anybody.”

John blinked in confusion, shaking his head, “Then why were you there?”

“He...I...” Sherlock trailed off, leaning forward in his chair to rub his face and hair, “He holds me.”

“Holds you?” John quizzed, “What does that mean?”

“He – we lay on the bed and he just…holds me close to him,” Sherlock blushed, looking at his hands in embarrassment, “and…I ask him to say things.”

“What things?” John asked, leaning closer until there were only inches between him and Sherlock.

“Personal things,” Sherlock whispered.

“Like – dirty talk?” John replied with a short cough.

“It's not sexual,” Sherlock insisted, looking up at John through the rogue curls falling into his face.

“So what then?”

“I – he tells me he loves me,” Sherlock whispered, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

John felt a nervous laugh bubble up before he could stop himself. Sherlock's face fell in mortified horror and he quickly leapt from his chair, striding back towards his bedroom.

“No! Sherlock, stop. I'm sorry. Come back,” John followed Sherlock, grabbing him by the arm and spinning him so they were almost chest to chest, “Why does he tell you he loves you?”

Sherlock blinked, feeling the two hot tracks down his cheeks as tears fell. No longer embarrassed, just numb, Sherlock sighed, “Because I need to pretend that I mean something to somebody. This is the only way.”

John's face fell, pain pierced his heart as he looked at Sherlock looking utterly broken and alone, but he couldn't move. He couldn't speak or whisper words of kindness to Sherlock who seemed to be waiting; waiting for a rebuttal or an agreement, but he was only met with silence.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock whispered before turning away from John and making his way back into his bedroom with a soft click of the door lock.


	2. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I tried…” Sherlock whispered, lifting his head as he choked on a sob, “I tried not to feel -- that way. I didn’t want to. I didn’t. It’s a distraction and it distracts me from my work.”
> 
> John leaned forward, putting a hand on Sherlock’s jaw line, feeling the detective nuzzle into his palm with a hitched breath as John’s forehead rested softly against Sherlock’s own sweaty, frizz-slicked forehead.
> 
> “But?” John asked, his breath tickling Sherlock’s philtrum and slicked lips.
> 
> “But I realised that -- that -- you are my work,” Sherlock sniffed, “You’re my work, you’re my home, you’re my conscience, and my guiding light. You keep me sane and you help me learn. You…you make me human."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is enjoyable. I feel quite guilty because I slightly love Sherlock's parents in the show and I've made them less loveable in this story.

John stood anxious, nervously looking at the white wood door and waiting for Sherlock to return. Muffled in the background was an almost inaudible sobbing sound, obviously Sherlock had covered his face with something to lessen the noise which John felt tugging on his heart strings. 

Sherlock had always been an enigma to John. Always slightly unapproachable, something to be observed and marvelled at but never touched, like the Mona Lisa or something old and priceless. Threatening to crumble under his fingers. Sherlock had never seemed interested in touch - other than the occasional pat on the shoulder or handshake, the detective didn’t seem to like anybody being close enough to touch him. John had put it down to Sherlock’s oddness and thought no more about it, although he had always thought that it was a shame.

The crush he had developed on Sherlock at the beginning was mostly buried under his heterosexual guilt, ignored and hidden in the deep recessing to only be examined during his sleep. Sherlock shared these dreams with Sholto and Mr. Phillips, his sixth form English teacher. Sometimes all three doing terribly wicked things with one another which led John to wake up either on the brink of orgasm, or already sticky under the covers where his hand had subconsciously taken control. John simply cleaned himself off and ignored it, fought against it. What was the point in thinking about Sherlock sexually when it wasn’t possible to hold him; to indulge that burning need to consume one another? It was pointless and a waste of effort.

Except now Sherlock seemed to be thinking the same way, hiding his needs and wants away from John for similar reasons.

This wouldn’t do. 

John walked through the bathroom door and marched straight to the adjoining door. Knowing Sherlock never locked it, he simply pushed it open and stepped through into the darkened bedroom where Sherlock was lying on the bed.

“Get out,” Sherlock croaked, “can’t a man have some privacy?”

“I want you,” John said, his voice returning strong yet calm.

“No,” Sherlock whined, more sobs, “please, don’t do this.”

“I want you, Sherlock,” John repeated, taking a step closer.

“You pity me. This is just pity. I don’t need it!” Sherlock responded, sitting up and wiping his nose on his sleeve, “You don’t mean this. Please don’t say it.”

“I’ve been hiding it. Probably since the beginning. The moment I walked into Barts and saw you, you made my stomach flutter, you made my pulse quicken, you --”

“John. Please. No,” Sherlock wept, shaking his head, “Please don’t say it.”

“You complete me. Sherlock, I love you.”

Sherlock threw himself on the bed and sobbed, loud and uncaring.

“I’m sorry you had to rely on somebody else. Somebody you needed to dress up. I was selfish and stupid and I didn’t think that you could...want somebody like me,” John said as he looked down at himself, “I am flawed and broken too.” John walked towards the bed, squatting beside the mattress where Sherlock had buried his face into the duvet, “Look at me, Sherlock,” John whispered, “look at me and know that I’m sincere, that I’m telling the truth.”

“I tried…” Sherlock whispered, lifting his head as he choked on a sob, “I tried not to feel -- that way. I didn’t want to. I didn’t. It’s a distraction and it distracts me from my work.”

John leaned forward, putting a hand on Sherlock’s jaw line, feeling the detective nuzzle into his palm with a hitched breath as John’s forehead rested softly against Sherlock’s own sweaty, frizz-slicked forehead.

“ _ But _ ?” John asked, his breath tickling Sherlock’s philtrum and slicked lips.

“But I realised that -- that -- you  _ are _ my work,” Sherlock sniffed, “You’re my work, you’re my home, you’re my conscience, and my guiding light. You keep me sane and you help me learn. You…you make me human.”

“No,” John shook his head, “No, you were already human. Flawed? Yes. Irritating? Definitely,” he grinned, “but human nonetheless.”

“Will you say it again?” Sherlock whispered, “Please?”

“I love you,” John whispered in reply, stroking away Sherlock’s tears with his thumb, “Always have, always will.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Sherlock responded.

John kissed him to quieten him.  
  


* * *

 

John lay behind Sherlock, his arm under the dark curls whilst his other arm rested across Sherlock’s hips. Their legs slotted into one another, a perfect set of spoons. 

Sherlock’s hair smelt like cherries, a lingering hint of cigarette smoke from Sherlock’s obvious cheeky fag earlier in the afternoon. John stroked a hand across Sherlock’s flat stomach, circling his navel and grinning into Sherlock’s shoulder blades.

“We wasted so much time,” Sherlock whispered into the semi-darkness.

“We have lots left,” John hummed, nuzzling softly, “We can get old. Get a cottage somewhere.”

“Sussex,” Sherlock whispered, “You can have dogs. We can get chickens and bees and maybe even an old horse we can feed apples to. We...we could be happy.”

“You’ve already planned everything out, obviously,” John chuckled warmly, kissing the back of Sherlock’s neck, “I’d be what, the village doctor and know all the kiddies by name? Maybe I’ll get a bike with a bell and basket and ride the streets doing my rounds.”

“And I’ll work from home, taking cases that don’t require me to travel,” Sherlock blushed, “We could sell our own honey and jams.”

“Kiss me,” John whispered into Sherlock’s curls, “right this second.”

Sherlock frowned but awkwardly turned over, pressing a soft peck to John’s lips, “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” John insisted quickly, “No, you -- you were perfect. You’ve thought this all through.”

“Well, it’s sometimes too loud in my mind,” Sherlock explained, his eyebrows furrowed, “So I go to the peaceful place in my mind palace. It’s on the back deck of a cottage in Sussex; we’re there and we watch the sunset. You tell me about the planets and the stars as we watch it sink behind the hills. It’s...tranquil.”

“It sounds perfect,” John replied, stroking a hand through Sherlock’s hair and then pressing another kiss to those bow lips, “utterly perfect.”

“It doesn’t have to be Sussex,” Sherlock mumbled, “it could be anywhere.”

“I don’t care,” John whispered, cupping Sherlock’s cheek before bringing him in for a deep, tender kiss. 

Sherlock kissed John back before letting his head rest back onto John’s shoulder, entwining their legs as he stroked his hand up and down John’s stomach. 

“I never expected this,” Sherlock admitted quietly, not looking at John as he spoke, “being -- loved,” he said the word as though it was a bitter taste in his mouth.

“You’ve always been loved,” John replied, twisting to kiss Sherlock’s forehead in an eerily similar gesture to the one done by Mark the escort. 

“No I haven’t,” Sherlock scoffed, curling in on himself.

* * *

Ever since Sherlock was young he had been aware of the inconsistencies between his parents’ relationship with him compared to Mycroft. The older Holmes child was his father’s protégé and was expected to take on the life which Gerald Holmes had led; Mycroft was to be educated at the most prestigious schools in England and mingle with royalty  _ (of whom he was distantly related)  _ at tediously dull black tie dinners. Mycroft would join the Masons and the secret societies which didn’t  _ technically  _ exist if you asked one of the everyday Joe’s on the street. He was to become the perfect gentleman who would then retire to the country and hunt pheasants and eventually get gout. Mycroft was well on his way for this life - from the age of five he had been taught both classical and modern languages, geography, and history in order to help him through life - but as his seventh birthday loomed over him, something changed.

Mummy and Daddy had attended one of the Queen’s garden parties and had one too many tipples of fine champagne, leading to Gerald becoming overly amorous. Emma Holmes had thrown caution to the wind and allowed herself to indulge in a moment of risky behaviour, throwing herself wholeheartedly into a passionate, one time only steamy session in the back of the Holmes’ Bentley on the way back to the manor. Mycroft had been asleep when they had returned, giggling and kissing, looking flushed and radiant as they tittered at their naughtiness.

Emma Holmes soon realised that the risky session had indeed been risky. Six weeks later she was staring down at a tiny blue cross in a pregnancy test window with a feeling of nausea spreading through her in a way which didn’t feel like morning sickness. Gerald had sighed at the news and rubbed at his face, although money would be no issue for the family; Emma had been excited to return to work and had begun to write her thesis once more. Something which was immediately put on the backburner as her stomach swelled and her hormones made her snappy and angry at the flame haired little boy who wanted to practice his Latin with his mummy.

Sherlock knew he was cared for; his parents never mistreated him or abused him in any way, but they were always distant. Sherlock never got the loving attention from his parents which he desired above all else, when he was three and had fallen over on the gravel driveway and skinned his knees, he had run into the library to find his Mummy only to be shooed away as he was dripping blood on the carpets. The younger boy was raised by his wonderful nurse he lovingly called ‘Old Nan’ and it was her who would rock him to sleep and kiss his scraped knees and chase away the monster which lived in his wardrobes.

Mycroft had his lessons and languages, his plans and itineraries but Sherlock had his freedom which he loved most. He didn’t care that his parents spent most of their time with his annoying brother. As the second son, he wasn’t expected to study or build a network of dull Tories who blamed everything on foxes or immigrants; instead, he could build a galleon in the garden and pretend to be a pirate with his dog. Sherlock hadn’t realised the isolation and loneliness until the Holmes parents insisted it was time for him to go to school. Sherlock had stood by the classroom door with his knobbly knees barely covered by his long shorts and his frizzy curls looking wild and untamed - he had decided immediately that he didn’t want to be there. There was one boy picking his nose and a second young girl was crying because she had wet herself for the second time that morning. Sherlock had frowned and stood frozen to the spot until the kindly bearded teacher had touched him on the shoulder and introduced him to the class. Sherlock had been stunned at the warmth of the touch through his tiny uniform and stared at the man in wonder. The next surprise had been after the school day had ended, Sherlock carried his bag and lunchbox and looked out of the door nervously. The other students had mothers or fathers, grandparents or siblings waiting for them who quickly swooped down and gave their offspring a tender kiss or cuddle, asking about their day and cooing over the dreadful dried pasta collages they had been forced to do in class. Sherlock stood observing for a moment before noticing Arthur, the Holmes’ driver, standing straight backed and professional beside the door of the car. Sherlock took off towards the man and allowed himself to be strapped into the vehicle before they set off without a word.

“Mummy? Would you like to see my picture?” Sherlock asked as he entered the manor, throwing down his lunchbox and rushing to the drawing room where Emma stood looking at swatches of fabrics.

“Not now Sherlock dear,” Emma waved dismissively, “Mummy is busy.”

Sherlock pouted and stamped his foot but turned on his heel and marched to the garden where Gerald and Mycroft were discussing Victorian architecture. Sherlock jogged over with his school bag trailing on the ground and his hair bouncing, “Daddy? Look what I did today!”

Gerald didn’t even look down at his youngest son as he continued to point at the guttering along the house roof and began to explain certain points to Mycroft who looked between Sherlock’s sad little face and his father, trying desperately to keep up. Mycroft smiled sadly at his little brother and followed his father along the pathway as Gerald completed his lecture.

That night, Sherlock had bathed and scribbled his name on the tiled walls with bath soluble crayons which old Nan had bought. He was almost four but couldn’t quite remember which way the S in Sherlock was supposed to go causing him a lot of frustration; his head turned when the door opened and Mycroft sat on the floor beside the bathtub, looking a lot older than his eleven years.

“I saw your picture,” he told his sibling.

“Oh?” Sherlock asked his eyes wide and excited.

“It was very good,” Mycroft smiled, “I liked it a lot.”

Sherlock preened at the praise before returning to his picture on the wall, “It’s a pirate ship.”

“I see that,” Mycroft grinned before helping Sherlock lay back and washing his curls, knowing that Old Nan was becoming too elderly to wash the suds properly. Sherlock shivered at the sensation and looked up devotedly at his big brother.


	3. Club Tropicana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock, that’s foul,” Mycroft chastised but hid a smile, “Of course I’ve heard of young men who use socks as aids.”
> 
> “Please wise, older brother, tell me how most men masturbate. I’m sure you had lots of experience in the dorms,” Sherlock quipped before groaning in discomfort, “this is torture.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is my favourite chapter I've written in ages. The idea of Mycroft giving Sherlock 'the talk' is hilarious.

John frowned at the faraway look in Sherlock’s eyes but stroked a thumb across his eyebrow, startling Sherlock into returning back from some oft-forgotten corner of his mind palace. John smiled down, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and yawning tiredly, “I think we should sleep. Shall we just -- stay like this?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock nodded but was immediately aware of the closeness of their bodies, especially if they were to share a bed all night. John curled up around Sherlock’s back, nosing at the soft hairs at the base of Sherlock’s neck as he yawned again and snuggled down, wrapping an arm around Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed audibly, remembering yet another moment of humiliation.

When Sherlock was fourteen he had been invited to a school disco; he hadn’t wanted to go but Old Nan had practically bullied him into attending, insisting that it would be good for him to socialise with people his own age rather than be stuck in the library with the musty old books or in his room where he had set up a basic chemistry lab. Sherlock had only agreed when Nan gave him two pounds in order to buy sweets afterwards.

Standing in the church hall in the village, Sherlock looked around at his peers with a grimace; they were all ghastly and so noisy! The music was shrill, loud, and far too quick for any enjoyment whilst a man cried out about a place named ‘Club Tropicana’… Sherlock wasn’t sure where that place was, but he was adamant that he never,  _ ever _ wanted to go there. Using his deduction skills which he had learnt from Mycroft, Sherlock skimmed the other teenagers and picked up clues about them.

Jane Scott  _ (dyed blonde hair, pink tutu and leg warmers, parents recently divorced)  _ was crying in the corner whilst her friends consoled her and fiddled with a bottle of cheap mascara to top up the bleeding black makeup running down her cheeks. Sherlock was puzzled as to why Jane would be crying over her parents’ divorce; she would have access to two bedrooms, two sets of pocket money, two Christmases, and she would only have to spend half as much time with both. It sounded perfect to Sherlock.

“I like your suit,” a girl smiled as she walked towards Sherlock and looked up and down his long, lean body with her mouth chomping open on a piece of ridiculously potent smelling strawberry bubble-gum. Jessica Davis was a girl from his school and Sherlock had found her intelligent and rather pretty in her own way; she wasn’t as foul as most of the people who attended his classes.

“Yes…erm…thanks,” Sherlock nodded tentatively, the girl was dark-haired with large dark eyes that were framed with blue eye shadow, blue eyeliner, and blue mascara. Her hair was backcombed in the fashion of Madonna  _ (Sherlock had seen her in a magazine once)  _ and she had on voluminous garments layered over one another with cheap plastic jewellery wrapped around every inch of skin that Sherlock could see.

“Want to dance?” She had asked him.

Sherlock frowned and bit his lip but nodded as the music turned into something slow and sensual compared to the cacophony which had previously played. Sherlock held Jessica’s waist and put one hand in hers, leading her in a slow waltz which he was proficient in. Their feet moved together with only the occasional mistake as Jessica misstepped and clumsily stood on Sherlock’s foot with a nervous giggle. Sherlock smiled down at her, noticing that his hands had become sweaty and his mouth was dry, he wondered momentarily if there was a correlation before realising that he had missed an important step because now he couldn’t see anything and the cloying taste of strawberries was now  _ in  _ his mouth along with a slippery tongue which seemed intent on touching every inch of Sherlock’s mouth.

Spandau Ballet continued through the speakers as Sherlock attempted to return the kiss; he tilted his head and messily pushed his tongue passed Jessica’s own and began to lick and follow her movements. Her hand tightened in his own before she pulled them closer together, her budding breasts pushed up with toilet paper rubbing against his chest as her belly rubbed his rapidly hardening prick. Sherlock arched his hips away in embarrassment but Jessica continued to push closer, thrusting herself against him as they continued to sway to the music. Sherlock could feel something approaching, the inexplicable rise of pleasure - which he had discovered accidentally at the age of twelve - was rapidly building in his abdomen and at the base of his spine. Sherlock pulled his lips away and hid the groan of his climax with a brief cough before looking over at his flushed dance partner.

“That was nice,” Jessica smiled, picking out another piece of chewing gum before putting it in her mouth, “See you around.”

Sherlock could only watch in stunned shock as Jessica then walked to another boy standing alone before grabbing him for a dance and doing the same thing, kissing him and grinding against him. Sherlock felt humiliated and angry, storming from the church back towards home where he slammed his bedroom door harder than was strictly warranted to show he was sulking. He threw himself onto the mattress and breathed hard into the pillow before realising he was still sticky from his emission and would need to shower. Storming dramatically from his bed, he stripped his clothes and buried them in the hamper before showering.

Mycroft was home from studies and reading a book on WW2 Pacific battles when he heard Sherlock return and slam the door closed. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mycroft put down his book and walked to the bedroom door. He knocked carefully before pushing it open and taking in the surroundings. The musky scent of teenage lust was palpable in the air and Mycroft grimaced before pushing himself to sit onto Sherlock’s bed.

When Sherlock emerged smelling clean and still shower damp yet fully clothed, he glared at his brother and pointed to the door, “Out.”

The older Holmes shook his head; at twenty two he had had sexual experiences and had felt overwhelmed by the sensations and wanted to ensure his baby brother didn’t feel the same way. 

“We need to discuss some things.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes tellingly, “No. We really don’t.”

“Sex, Sherlock. We need to have The Talk.”

“Never, with all of the arguments in the world, would I ever discuss this with you,” Sherlock insisted while towelling off his hair.

“I understand the embarrassment of the discussion, Sherlock, and honestly, I would prefer not to have it at all myself, but I can’t imagine Old Nan giving you information on morning tumescence or nocturnal emissions,” Mycroft explained before patting Sherlock’s bed, “Sit with me.”

“No,” Sherlock pouted before climbing on the bed and turning onto his side so his back was facing his brother.

“Fine,” Mycroft cleared his throat, “To create a baby, a man needs to place his penis…”

“Oh my god, kill me now,” Sherlock whined from behind Mycroft, a pillow promptly covering his head.

“Sherlock, you  _ must  _ understand the baby-making process for when you are courting!” Mycroft stressed.

“I know how it’s done. Penis meets vagina, sperm meets egg. Voila baby,” Sherlock gestured vaguely in the air, “Now please leave.”

Mycroft was beginning to become flustered himself and could feel the first drips of sweat lurking on his upper lip, beneath the trendy moustache he was attempting to grow in an attempt to be taken more seriously.

“Very well, masturbation then,” Mycroft continued with a wince, “It can…be very pleasurable and is a good stress reliever for the...the body.”

“Oh my goooooood,” Sherlock cried out, “Why are you still here?”

“One must be careful, however; it can be…messy,” Mycroft continued, wiping his flustered face, “I imagine that you would like to keep your emissions private. There are a few ways of doing this.”

“Please,” Sherlock begged from beneath his pillow, “kill me.”

“The...there are a number of ways that you can get rid of your ejaculate. Many people find the easiest way is tissues or a well-placed kerchief which can be quickly washed without much ceremony. The laundress won’t examine your handkerchief as she might your bedding,” Mycroft explained before picking at the skin of his nails nervously, “Of course, there is the cupping method. Simply cup your hand around the tip and collect the…semen…into your palm and wash it away in the sink, or you could ejaculate directly into a water source. The sink basin, shower, or toilet.”

“Or stream,” Sherlock giggled, “Imagine it floating through the estate.”

“Sherlock, that’s foul,” Mycroft chastised but hid a smile, “Of course I’ve heard of young men who use socks as aids.”

“Please wise, older brother, tell me how most men masturbate. I’m sure you had lots of experience in the dorms,” Sherlock quipped before groaning in discomfort, “this is torture.”

“Night emissions may be an inconvenient occurrence, but unfortunately you must live with it,” Mycroft carried on before being startled by Sherlock climbing from his bed and walking to the bathroom where he slammed the door and ran every faucet in the room to drown out his brother’s voice.

“Stupid boy,” Mycroft frowned before leaving the room and retreating back to his own bedroom.

Back in the present, Sherlock decided he had no other option. He would simply stay awake. Spend the rest of the night simply cataloging John as he slept. It was one of the very few times that Sherlock had been unable to witness John (due to John’s ridiculously strict policy about spying on him), but this presented him with the perfect opportunity. Sherlock was already imagining the variety of tests and evidence he could collate when he yawned, wide enough to crack his jaw. He was asleep before he even realised.


	4. Chlorine scented sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John?” Sherlock whispered, voice deep with sleep and emotion.
> 
> “Yeah, I’m here.” John replied, tucking the covers in around them tightly to keep warm.
> 
> “Promise me that you’ll never leave me?” Sherlock whimpered, holding back sobs.
> 
> “Of course I won’t. I haven’t left you yet, regardless of the mold cultures in my mugs and compost in my slippers. I love you, Sherlock.” John soothed, nuzzling into Sherlock’s curls to kiss his head gently.

The first time Sherlock slept with somebody (not even sexually, but rather innocently fell asleep in a bed with another person) was during his first year of college. He had been paired with a boy from his science class for a project; the teacher had insisted that even though Sherlock could do it alone with his eyes closed, he still needed to work with a partner and had assigned him with Andrew. Andrew was the champion swimmer of the local area and was expected to do well in the next Olympics; he was quiet with mousy brown hair and a love of brown corduroys and converse trainers.

The project had started off well enough; Andrew wasn’t as interested in science as he was in other subjects and he allowed Sherlock to do most of the practical side before they met up one evening to collate their notes into a report for the teacher. Sherlock hadn’t been particularly thrilled at having someone else in his home. He was still living at the manor and was aware that the wealth often made people feel uncomfortable, but Andrew simply smiled coyly at the butler and followed the man up to Sherlock’s wing of the house. After a brief tour of the bathrooms and the small kitchen, the two boys went to work on their project, which lasted long into the night until both boys were nodding off whilst sitting up. Neither planned to fall asleep, but as the time progressed, they gradually migrated to sitting on Sherlock’s huge bed before curling up and sleeping.

Sherlock slept well that night; a feeling of peace spreading through him the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since he was a small child when Old Nan would let him climb into her bed for a cuddle or when he occasionally had nightmares and Mycroft let him sleep in his bed. Sherlock’s body sought the warmth of another and sluggishly pulled itself towards Andrew, wrapping his slender frame around Andrew’s back and falling back into a dreamless sleep with his nose buried in the sweet-smelling hair slightly tinged with a scent of chlorine from Andrew’s swimming practice.

Andrew awoke to a strange sensation; something was pressing into his lower back and grinding across his bare skin. His shirt had rolled up in his sleep and now somebody was touching him whilst panting into his ear. Andrew lifted his head listlessly, still affected by the deep sleep and turned to see Sherlock’s sleep-slack features, his eyes fluttering beneath eyelids as he dreamt.

The swimmer had shared beds with boys before during competitions and was well aware of the effects of a teenage boy’s lust addled brain. Morning erections were commonplace on the team and a subject of intense humour if it happened in front of another boy, so Andrew didn’t mind the actual physiological response, but he  _ was _ nervous about the soft grunts which escaped 

Sherlock’s lips with every roll of his hips.

“Sherlock? Wake up,” Andrew hissed, unsure as to whether he would wake up Sherlock’s family if he spoke too loudly.

Sherlock grumbled in his sleep and grasped Andrew’s waist tighter, giving a final hard thrust before his eyes immediately widened with realisation and his cock began to twitch and explode in his trousers. Sherlock shimmied away from the other boy and blinked owlishly as his cock continued to spurt into his pants, again and again.

“Jesus…” Andrew gasped, “Er…it’s…alright? I guess.”

Sherlock whined and closed his eyes tightly in shame; his stupid body had let him down once more.

“Listen,” Andrew cleared his throat, “it’s fine, let’s just…forget it, yeah? I won’t tell anyone and I’ll just…go. I’ll see you in class.”

Sherlock nodded numbly and watched as Andrew gathered his belongings and, with a soft smile, left Sherlock’s room to stumble down the numerous corridors towards the exit and ignoring the crush of people suddenly filling the corridors.

Sherlock climbed from his bed, cringing at the stickiness in his trousers as he walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. He pulled off his clothes and showered quickly and without fuss before pottering into his bedroom; he refused to think of the outcome of his first bed sharing experience. Andrew hadn’t seemed horrified or angry over it, and Sherlock didn’t think that he would tell anybody about what happened; all in all, it wasn’t the worst outcome.

He jumped slightly as the door opened and Mycroft walked through. The older Holmes grimaced at Sherlock’s nudity and turned his back with a sigh, “Sherlock, I suggest you put on some clothes. We need to talk.”

“Why aren’t you at work, brother mine? Shouldn’t you be tonguing a politician’s behind this early on a Monday morning?” Sherlock snarked as he pulled on a pair of boxer shorts and his robe. Sitting on the edge of the bed he sighed and rolled his eyes, “What do you want? Has mummy made cakes again?”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft trailed off, suddenly looking solemn “I…last night...”

Sherlock frowned and stared at Mycroft. He had no doubt that his brother could read what happened from his micro-expressions and the evidence remaining at the bottom of his laundry hamper, but Sherlock didn’t think that was what Mycroft needed to discuss. His stomach twisted painfully as he blinked nervously, “What’s happened?”

“It’s Old Nan,” Mycroft cleared his throat and looked out of the window, “she passed away in the night.”

“No,” Sherlock gasped, standing up and beginning to pace between the bathroom door and his bed, “No. She was fine, I saw her last night. She’s fine.”

“Sherlock, she died. All lives end, I’ve told you this and the woman was almost 80 years old. It was her time to go,” Mycroft added and walked to Sherlock’s side, placing a hand on each of Sherlock’s arms.

“How? How did she die?” Sherlock asked tearfully, his heart felt as though it was breaking piece by piece.

“We don’t know yet. The maid found her on her bedroom floor…it looked as though she was trying to crawl out of the bedroom,” Mycroft admitted cautiously.

“She…she was trying to crawl to me,” Sherlock gasped, “she needed me and I wasn’t there…I was…asleep with Andrew.”

Mycroft attempted to hide his surprise and muffled the hitched breath with a cough, “Sherlock, we don’t know for certain. She may have just passed away.”

“Get me a sample of her blood. Do you think the morgue would let me help with the autopsy? I need to see her…I need to know,” Sherlock began to rant, pushing out of Mycroft’s grasp and walking quicker whilst grasping his hair, “She didn’t like the cold, Mycroft, you know she didn’t. They’ll put her in the freezer and she’ll be cold.”

Mycroft bit his lip and looked at his sibling kindly. Sherlock had always been closer to Old Nan than their own parents and the boy was reacting as though it was his own mother who had died. 

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled his baby brother close, letting their foreheads rest against one another as Sherlock slowly began to cry, tears dripping from his cheeks to soak into his silk robe as he pounded his fists against Mycroft’s chest.

“She’ll be cold,” Sherlock whispered into his brother’s embrace, “She’ll…she’ll be scared and alone. She doesn't like the cold, Mycroft. She doesn't.”

On the day of Old Nan’s funeral, Sherlock acted the dutiful son of the Holmes family. He smiled, shook hands, and nodded in agreement when the Vicar spoke about how loved the old lady was, but deep down Sherlock felt an overwhelming sense of grief and guilt over the death of his beloved nanny. Mycroft had taken on the burden of organising the funeral, but Sherlock had insisted on playing a specially written violin piece at the end of the service as the coffin left the small church in the nearby village. Mycroft had agreed and watched as Sherlock spilled his heart and emotions freely at the front of the church, swaying with each note with his eyes closed as he played the deep and melodious tune.

Sherlock had wanted to help carry the coffin; he was tall and reedy but surprisingly strong and had begged Mycroft to allow it but his brother had refused, insisting that it wasn’t seemly for a gentleman to carry the coffin of one of the staff. Sherlock had been utterly furious and if it wasn’t for their father, Sherlock would have punched Mycroft.

 

Old Nan wasn’t  _ just _ the staff, she had been Sherlock’s only friend.

* * *

 

John awoke to the sounds of Sherlock’s whimpering, he turned over and frowned down at Sherlock’s frowning face, the deep set creases of discomfort on Sherlock’s forehead showing the turmoil within. John shushed his lover, gathering him up in his arms and letting Sherlock’s head rest against his chest as he smoothed down Sherlock’s hair. 

“John?” Sherlock whispered, voice deep with sleep and emotion.

“Yeah, I’m here,” John replied, tucking the covers in around them tightly to keep warm.

“Promise me that you’ll never leave me?” Sherlock whimpered, holding back sobs.

“Of course I won’t. I haven’t left you yet, regardless of the mold cultures in my mugs and compost in my slippers. I love you, Sherlock.” John soothed, nuzzling into Sherlock’s curls to kiss his head gently.

“She would have liked you.” Sherlock said cryptically before smiling and wrapping his arm around John’s torso whilst the other pillowed his face. 


	5. Second Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should break up,” Sherlock said suddenly, eyes flitting from side to side, “it's not me, it's you.”
> 
> “What?” John blinked, frowning and dropping the food on the table so he could walk back to the living room, “What are you on about?”
> 
> “It was fun whilst it lasted. I had a good time…you're a nice guy, but I don't want to see your penis. We should remain friends,” Sherlock continued to ramble, “I’d appreciate if you didn't ask any more questions.”
> 
> “Well, that's not going to happen,” John said sternly before walking to Sherlock's side, attempting to take Sherlock's hand only for it to be batted away, “What's happened? What brought this on?”

John blinked awake, his vision suddenly clouded by a mass of dark curls which tickled his nose and forced him to wrinkle it away with a loud sniff. Rubbing at his eyes, John turned and looked at the clock with a groan when it read 9:03am.

“Bloody hell,” John grumbled, looking down and noticing he was still fully dressed, his jeans creased dramatically where Sherlock had been laid beside him. Realising he would be late for work, John carefully shook Sherlock and kissed him on the head in an attempt to wake him, “Sherlock? I need to get up. I have to go to work.”

“I see no reason why you needed to wake me up to deliver that information,” Sherlock grumbled, reaching for the duvet and pulling it over him as John stood from the bed and took away his bodily warmth.

“I thought you might want to give me a kiss goodbye,” John huffed, running a hand through his hair and sniffing his armpits. He didn't have time to shower before his shift.

“You have morning breath,” Sherlock said, peeking out of his nest he had made in the bed, “but fine, come here then.”

Sherlock's smile showed he was teasing as John crossed the bedroom floor to stoop down, kissing Sherlock on the lips and running a hand through the dark curls, “Will you be alright?”

“John,” Sherlock sighed, “I am a thirty five year old man. You will be gone for eight hours. I'm fairly certain that I can keep myself alive that long, yes.”

John laughed and gave Sherlock another kiss before reaching for his phone from the bedside table, “I'll bring you tea before I leave.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed dramatically, rolling into the pillow which smelt like John and hiding his loving smile, “but don't expect me to be awake.”

* * *

When Sherlock awoke some hours later he realised two things: he was alone, and the cup of tea on his bedside table was stone cold. It was also resting on a small slip of paper which had John's almost indecipherable handwriting scribbled onto it. Sitting up, Sherlock took the paper and held it up, feeling almost like he was expected to read hieroglyphics instead of a doctor’s scrawl.

_ You look so beautiful when you sleep. I didn't want to wake you. _

__

__ __ __ __ __ _ – I love you. _

Sherlock felt his stomach flutter, and he read the note three more times before climbing out of bed and carefully pulling up the floorboards near the window. Beside his secret box (7% solution, hypodermics, tourniquet) was another equally sized - but more ornately carved - wooden box. Sherlock smoothed his fingers over the lid before grasping it, pulling it out, and opening it with a grin.

Inside were Sherlock's hidden treasures. The small things of John that Sherlock would never admit to keeping. Along with a lock of John's hair (which he had snipped off as part of an 'experiment'), there was also a small photo of John in his combat gear (stolen from John's room), a few carefully cut out newspaper articles showing them together and finally the shell casing from the bullet which killed the dreadful cabbie.

Sherlock smoothed the small paper note in his hand before placing it into the box, then locked it all away again and hid it back in its hiding place.

Standing up, Sherlock began walking towards his bathroom but stopped immediately, sniffing the air and snarling as he marched into the living room. He found Mycroft sitting in his leather chair, picking at his fingernails and looking bored.

“Out,” Sherlock insisted, pointing at the door, “Get out.”

“Where is your brotherly tenderness?” Mycroft sighed, “It's like you were raised by wolves.”

“Hmm. Funny. Now leave,” Sherlock grunted, turning his back on Mycroft and walking into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea while childishly refusing to offer his brother one.

“Sherlock, I feel we need to have a discussion,” Mycroft said, tapping his umbrella against the floorboards, “about your –  _ relationship _ with John.”

“Nope,” Sherlock said, popping the P dramatically.

“Sherlock…you know I only have your best interests at heart,” Mycroft soothed, although the voice seemed forced and apprehensive, “I don't think that this is a good idea. Yourself and John.”

“I'm sorry, you seem you think I asked for your opinion,” Sherlock replied, not looking back from his place in the kitchen, “Besides, what do you know about sex or relationships? You're shagging an old lady.”

“What?” Mycroft spluttered, eyes wide. He wasn't aware that Sherlock knew about his… arrangement with Lady Smallwood.

“Clair de lune,” Sherlock smirked, finally making eye contact with his brother, “I could smell it from the bedroom.”

“That means nothing,” Mycroft said, back in control of his expression.

“It's either that, or you've decided to follow in Uncle Rudy's footsteps,” Sherlock laughed before turning and seating himself in John's chair, crossing his legs, “What do you want?”

“Think about it, Sherlock,” Mycroft said softly, leaning forward, “John is…well…he's your best friend. What would happen if you two were to have a  _ domestic _ ?” Mycroft said the word like it tasted bad and he frowned.

Sherlock struggled to respond, but already a sick undercurrent of worry was seeping into his bones, “We – love each other.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft winced.

“You might not care, Mycroft! You might get your kicks by  _ fucking  _ old ladies, but I need more than that. I need more than I have,” Sherlock insisted before shutting his mouth.

“Like prostitutes, baby brother?” Mycroft asked, eyes sparkling with mischief, “That did cause a stir in the office when that small nugget of information was passed through. We didn't think you had it in you…quite literally.”

Sherlock blushed, biting his lip, “Shut up.”

Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose “I always get left to have these discussions. The – sex talks. You know I would rather be doing  _ anything  _ else in the entire world than talking about this, but I'm concerned that if you and John were to split up, you would lose everything you have. Your housemate, work partner, best friend, lover, doctor, cleaner, babysitter. The list is seemingly endless.”

“But we might not...” Sherlock argued weakly.

“But you  _ might _ . You have no experience in this. Do you really think that John will be patient enough to allow you to work through your issues? No. Remember how quickly he jumps from woman to woman. Which leads me to my next point: you're not a woman.”

“I know that,” Sherlock responded but Mycroft could see the cogs in Sherlock's brain working hard, “He said – He told me...”

“Thoughts are one thing, Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, “but actions are another. The thought of handling a man's penis within a sexual fantasy and doing it in real life are totally different.”

Sherlock's patience snapped and he put his cup down, standing up and pacing for a moment before looking at his brother, “You need to leave. Now.”

“I only have your interests in mind, brother mine,” Mycroft said softly, “I don't want you to get hurt.”

Sherlock walked to the kitchen and bustled around, looking in cupboards until he found what we was looking for. Plugging in all three blenders, he turned them on so the noise drowned out his brother. Mycroft looked on unimpressed but held up his hands, signing to Sherlock quickly as he left: “Think about what I said.”

“Fuck off,” Sherlock signed back just as quickly.

* * *

John whistled cheerfully as he carried the bags of hot Chinese food down Baker Street. He had texted Sherlock to ask what the younger man wanted for dinner, but he hadn't received a response. Thinking Sherlock had simply gotten involved in an experiment, John had picked up Sherlock's favourites and brought them home with him. Opening the door, he walked into the flat and kicked off his shoes, finding Sherlock sitting still in his leather sofa, still in his pyjamas with his hair uncombed.

John moved to Sherlock's side and ran a hand through the other man's hair, bending down to kiss his crown, “Hello,” he smiled.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, snapping out of his daze and blinking up at John in confusion.

“Yup. It's me,” John laughed as he walked to the kitchen in an attempt to plate up the food, noticing but ignoring the three blenders on the counter. He didn't want to know what Sherlock had in store for them.

“We should break up,” Sherlock said suddenly, eyes flitting from side to side, “it's not me, it's you.”

“What?” John blinked, frowning and dropping the food on the table so he could walk back to the living room, “What are you on about?”

“It was fun whilst it lasted. I had a good time…you're a nice guy, but I don't want to see your penis. We should remain friends,” Sherlock continued to ramble, “I’d appreciate if you didn't ask any more questions.”

“Well, that's not going to happen,” John said sternly before walking to Sherlock's side, attempting to take Sherlock's hand only for it to be batted away, “What's happened? What brought this on?”

“Nothing. I think it was a lapse of judgment to suggest that we should be together,” Sherlock said, his bottom lip trembling, “Your mistake.”

“Sherlock, calm down.” John soothed, watching as Sherlock worked himself up further, “What's going on?”

“I have too much to lose!” Sherlock shouted, glaring at John, “If you leave me... _ when _ you leave me. Because you will; I am unable to be loved. You will become disillusioned with me as a prospective lover and you will go. You'll leave. And if you leave, then I have nothing.”

Sherlock wiped away the tear which tracked its way down his cheek. He felt angry and mortified and he wasn't sure why John wouldn't just accept his decision. Sherlock was the cleverer of the two, after all.

John frowned, brushing his knuckle up Sherlock's cheek as he shook his head, “Mycroft?”

Sherlock nodded sadly and watched as John bristled visibly.

“The man is a cock,” John said softly, stepping closer to Sherlock and putting a hand on his hip, “and he knows nothing about us. About you. And especially about my feelings for you.”

Sherlock blinked, sending more tears down his face and John sighed, pulling Sherlock to sit on his knee as they thudded into John's chair. Sherlock curled into John's arms, sniffling softly whilst John stroked a hand up and down Sherlock's spine, “If it’s not what you want, then I understand that. I wouldn't argue with it because it’s your feelings. But if you're saying this because of what your arse-faced brother has said, then I don't accept it. I love you, Sherlock. Nothing that mouthy bastard will say can change that.”

Sherlock nodded, “I – I don't want to break up.”

“Good,” John sighed in relief, “that's brilliant. I'm happy about that. You just got yourself a bit worked up, that's all. You've probably been thinking about it all day and getting overwhelmed haven't you?” John smiled when Sherlock nodded, “Right, so now you're going to have some Chinese food with me, and then we're going to snuggle on the sofa and watch some Star Trek. You're going to complain about the scientific inaccuracies but enjoy it anyway and I'll probably fall asleep because that's  _ normal  _ and that's our life. Okay?”

“Okay, John.” Sherlock agreed softly, nodding “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Now come on, my spring rolls are getting cold,” John smiled, kissing Sherlock, “Idiot.”


	6. The Good Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “People are people,” John hummed in response, kissing Sherlock's head and resting his chin on the top, “he's no different to anyone else I've treated.”
> 
> “Not everyone sees it that way,” Sherlock replied, stroking John's stomach with his long fingers.
> 
> “I'm different, I guess,” John smiled but was worried when Sherlock popped his head up, eyes flicking back and forth over John's face, “Sherlock?”
> 
> “I'm going to kiss you now,” Sherlock warned, “and then we're going to go to bed…and…I would like to touch you intimately.”
> 
> “Oh,” John whispered, licking his lips and cautiously nodding, “I’d like that.”
> 
> “Good.”
> 
> **Slight TW for a gross injury later in the chaper**

John's attention was drawn away from his blog towards the living room door. Sherlock had popped out some hours ago but now had come home, apparently with company. Putting his laptop down, John wiped his hands on his trousers and walked to the desk in the living room just as Sherlock pushed the door open, pulling a young man through with him at the same time.

“Jesus,” John breathed, looking across at both men, “what happened to him?”

Sherlock helped the young man onto the sofa and took a step back, his eyes flicking between John and the man, “His name is Peter.”

“Right…that doesn't explain anything,” John said, immediately going into doctor mode and pressing his hands to the man's skin, checking his pulse, and then briefly lifting the man's eyelids, “Peter? Hello? Can you hear me?”

“He's apparently been sick for a few days,” Sherlock replied instead, “Trish told me that Peter thought it was just a stomach bug, but it hasn't shifted.”

John nodded and looked over at his patient; the man was barely out of his teens and looked too thin. John realised immediately that Peter was one of Sherlock's homeless network.

“Help me take this coat from him,” John said, rushing to grab his first aid kit and putting on some gloves, “We'll see what we can do.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock whispered, looking down sadly at the man on the sofa and remembering a time when he could have been the same way.

* * *

Sherlock's drug use had spiralled quickly and without warning. After taking cocaine offered to him by Sebastian Wilkes, Sherlock had fallen instantly in love, wanting more immediately afterwards. He experimented with strengths and types before finally attempting to make his own hybrid involving heroin which turned out to be the final straw for his exhausted and emaciated body, which promptly went into shock and overdose as a result. Sebastian had found him foaming at the mouth and had called an ambulance but ran away before the paramedics arrived, too afraid his own reputation would be tarnished.

So Sherlock had ended up in rehab - subsidised by Mycroft, he had been shipped to a top clinic in the outskirts of London. It was pathetically easy to escape and Sherlock had fled into the night with barely anything to his name, just clothes and enough money to get him a bus ticket to central London. Sherlock had walked the streets, noticing everything far more clearly now that he was clean from drugs. He had been sitting on a park bench in Regents park when a young girl sat beside him, obviously homeless herself; she had been kind, offering Sherlock help and a sheltered place to stay. Intrigued, Sherlock had agreed and walked with her to the docks and a large warehouse which had been set out with cardboard and sleeping bags in an attempt to keep the cold air out.

“I'm Trish,” the woman had smiled as they walked, “and you are?”

“Sherlock,” the young man had replied, not giving a surname.

“Sherlock...” Trish replied, “Well, welcome to the club. You can stay here as long as you need. We share whatever we can to get by.”

For the next few weeks, Sherlock had watched the group, joined in with conversations, and discovered that the homeless had talents which could be useful. Sherlock had offered to teach them the science of basic deductions in return for them teaching him their various skills. Kim had showed him how to pick the most difficult of locks, showing Sherlock how to listen to to the click of the mechanism and how to find the pressure point - in return, Sherlock had showed her how to read a person. Kim had left a few weeks later and Sherlock had later heard that she had taken to giving Tarot readings based on what she had learnt.

Damien had showed Sherlock how to pickpocket. The other homeless friends had giggled and started to sing “You have to pick a pocket or two” (complete with choreography), but Sherlock hadn't understood the reference. Soon enough, Sherlock was able to pick pockets undetected and unwitnessed.

The partnership worked perfectly: each person would go out and beg, borrow, or steal to get by before bringing everything back to the docks to share. Then there would be fireside conversation and a passing of whisky. Sherlock had found an unstringed violin and had fixed it up, giving small concerts to his friends as they sat around on their cardboard beds.

Sherlock was happy - well, as happy as he could be whilst hungry and cold.

Until Sam.

Sam was an older, more respected homeless man. He had been homeless for twenty years and had hitchhiked from one end of the country to the other before settling in London where he found the group and acted as a strange father figure, giving out advice and guidance to the younger members. An ex-military man, Sam was a once respected veteran who had won medals for his valour; he was brave and kind and always looked after the others. Sherlock saw it before the others did: a limp beginning in the winter which forced Sam to wince with each step. Sherlock had pulled Sam aside and offered to help, to give the basic first aid he had learned from another member, but Sam had smiled and patted Sherlock's cheek.

“I'm fine, son. Don't you worry about me,” Sam had smiled cheerily, the alcohol on his breath sour and stale.

Over the following months, Sam had deteriorated. His temper was worse, explosive sometimes with pain and anger at the affliction in his foot. Sherlock and a few of the others had finally pinned Sam down, grabbing for his boot and pulling.

Sam's skin came off with the boot. The older man screamed, crying out as Sherlock's eyes went wide at the sight of the wiggling creatures which infested Sam's flesh. Sherlock had experimented with maggots before and had never really been squeamish about the things, but seeing them slimy and coated with Sam's blood had been enough to send him and a few other friends retching and gagging.

Somebody rushed out to call an ambulance which came quickly, loading Sam onto the gurney with a sad sigh. Sherlock had offered to go with him but the paramedics had held him back and pushed Sam into the ambulance, closing the door behind him.

“Why didn't he get medical help?” Sherlock had stressed to Trish later in the night, swigging from their shared whisky, “ _ Why _ ?”

“Sherlock...” Trish had whispered, putting an arm around the young man's shoulders, “You're – new to this. You're affluent and have never had to live this life. Sam was – experienced. We can't go to the doctors. Most homeless people aren't registered to a GP, we wouldn't have access, no access to prescription drugs even if we got one. Would you pay the £8.40 for a course of antibiotics or on cider for your addiction?”

“But...” Sherlock had attempted to interrupt, falling silent as Trish began to speak again.

“If we did, if Sam went to _ his _ doctor, then they would have referred him to adult social services and then what? All he knows is the streets. He's alcohol dependant. What do you think would happen?”

“Couldn't he have gone to the hospital?” Sherlock gulped, wiping his tear filled eyes, “He could have gone there.”

Seeing Sherlock was upset, Trish had soothed him the best she could before sighing, “Life is hard for people like us, Sherlock. Basic survival is hard.”

A week later, Sherlock had used a payphone to call Mycroft. The older Holmes didn't have the power or influence back then to give him access to CCTV of London, and he was thankful and relieved to finally have Sherlock back. Sending a car immediately, Sherlock had climbed inside and cried all the way back to the Holmes family manor where he had showered, shaved, and eaten his fill.

“I want to live in London,” Sherlock stated, looking at his parents and Mycroft who all stared back.

“Are you joking?” Mycroft scoffed, shaking his head, “You think that we can trust you?”

Sherlock exhaled angrily, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth before he spoke, “I am clean; have been since I left that wretched rehab and I can do tests to prove it. I want to help people, I can't just – sit here, being bored and waited on hand and foot.”

Mycroft had ranted and raved, Mrs. and Mr. Holmes watching on in bored indifference before shrugging, “Fine. We'll find you a small place, but one whiff of trouble and you're back here. No more chances.”

Sherlock grinned, thankful for once of his family’s apathy towards him.

And so Sherlock had moved back to London, this time to a small rented flat that he could barely fit his meagre belongings in, but it was progress. For a while, it was home whilst he set up his detective business, helping out in return for small favours or cash. Sherlock still went to the docks, only this time he left at the end of the night to return to his flat and always brought a week’s worth of shopping for his friends to ensure they didn't go without. One night he was about to return home when Trish pulled him aside.

“Sam passed away,” she whispered sadly, “They – they took his feet, but it wasn't enough. In the end they took his legs, but he had a massive infection and he died.”

Sherlock had felt a thud in his stomach as the heaviness fell.

When Sherlock had found John Watson, it was almost like the pieces were finally aligned. Sherlock still saw his friends (who had taken to calling themselves 'the network') and provided for them as often as he could. Trish had acted as their leader, becoming the main point of contact between Sherlock for communication. Whenever a homeless person had an issue or needed something, Trish would call on Sherlock who would take care of it quickly.

Sherlock was thankful that John was a good person who treated people without bias or prejudice. Sherlock had often brought homeless people to the flat for medical treatment and John had always provided, putting on his latex gloves and jumping in without asking any other questions. Sherlock had fallen a little bit in love with him for that, for his kind nature and his constant reassurance to the people who needed him. People like Peter.

“It looks like appendicitis,” John explained, looking up at Sherlock, “phone an ambulance.”

Later in the night when Peter had been dispatched to the hospital and Sherlock and John sat on the sofa, curled up in one another's company, Sherlock had spoken deep and rumbling against John's chest.

“What was that?” John asked, stroking Sherlock's hair and tilting his head.

“I said thank you,” Sherlock whispered, cheeks flushed, “You – you never ask questions.”

“People are people,” John hummed in response, kissing Sherlock's head and resting his chin on the top, “he's no different to anyone else I've treated.”

“Not everyone sees it that way,” Sherlock replied, stroking John's stomach with his long fingers.

“I'm different, I guess,” John smiled but was worried when Sherlock popped his head up, eyes flicking back and forth over John's face, “Sherlock?”

“I'm going to kiss you now,” Sherlock warned, “and then we're going to go to bed…and…I would like to touch you intimately.”

“Oh,” John whispered, licking his lips and cautiously nodding, “I’d like that.”

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kittiekatthings.tumblr.com  
> @herekittiekat


	7. John has moves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I heard the Aria da Capo,” Sherlock whispered, squeezing John's hand, “When I was...climaxing.”
> 
> “Oh?” John asked, not sure what Sherlock meant but smiling at the thought, “Is that good?”
> 
> “Very good,” Sherlock sighed happily, “It was like – something from another world. All of my other orgasms have been…different than that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to Goddess of the night for beta'ing my work and for always being there when I need to rant and rave. She's been the perfect friend.
> 
> Gem has too. She helped me massively during this chapter because I couldn't get inspired. Not sure what I would do without these two girls in my life.

Sherlock led John through the living room and hallway, pausing outside his bedroom to take a breath and gather his thoughts before pushing open the door. Sherlock's bedroom was thankfully clean of experiments and grotesque crime scene pictures as he turned himself around and stood beside the bed, looking slightly lost as he stepped closer to John and cautiously kissed him. The kiss remained chaste, closed mouthed and timid as Sherlock put his hands on John's hips and held him, their height difference making it slightly awkward as John had to tilt his head up. Breaking the kiss, Sherlock licked his lips and hummed before moving back in, opening his mouth this time and deepening the kiss.

John groaned, melting into the kiss and putting one hand on Sherlock's cheekbone as he carefully flicked his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, eager yet unwilling to overwhelm his detective who seemingly needed time to process each movement and change in routine.

“Is this too fast?” John asked, watching as Sherlock flinched at the insinuation of his virginity.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head, “it’s -- I’ve waited. I didn’t want it to be anyone but you.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed, resting his forehead on Sherlock’s own.

“It’s okay. Don’t feel bad, it just means the anticipation has grown,” Sherlock smiled warmly, “So now you’re under pressure to show me  _ exactly _ what I’ve been missing.”

John laughed loudly and ran his hands down Sherlock’s sides, “Right, that’s it. You’re getting my best moves, then.”

“Best moves?” Sherlock tittered, “I cannot wait to see this.”

“Good, because you’re going to,” John laughed gently before kissing Sherlock again.

John took Sherlock's hands and helped him slowly begin to strip John of his shirt, pushing forward button by button as John reached up to kiss Sherlock tenderly again. Sherlock's touch was timid at first, sticking just to the fabric of John's shirt, but soon he was running his fingers across warm skin and scarred flesh. John winced when he felt the questing fingers trace his scar, something noticed by Sherlock who stopped and looked down at his lover guiltily, “Not good?”

“Just sensitive,” John smiled reassuringly, “It's not something many people touch.”

Sherlock frowned and trailed his hand across John's chest as he moved his position, standing behind John now and lowering his lips to John's shoulder to press kisses at the skin. Open-mouthed touches of his tongue slicked across the scar whilst his large hands wrapped around John's waist and ran across his stomach and chest. John let his head fall backwards to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, inhaling deeply at the intimacy of the touch. Sherlock kissed up John's neck, nibbling at his pulse point and then returning to John's shoulder to kiss and lathe affection on the knotted scar of tissue.

John could feel tears forming in his eyes at the love which was obvious in Sherlock's cautious touches. Twisting around so they were face to face again, John kissed Sherlock's lips before undressing his lover, taking his time to unbutton and then kiss across the entire plane of Sherlock's chest. Sherlock shivered, breath hitching as he held John's head close to him and whispered John's name.

“Beautiful,” John whispered reverently, moving to lay a loving kiss into the centre of Sherlock’s chest, just above his heart.

“You don’t have to -- be nice,” Sherlock grumbled, eyes closing at the praise but embarrassed at the neediness in his own voice.

“Of course I do,” John answered resolutely, kissing Sherlock’s lips as if to remove the argument from them, “You need to know.”

“John…” Sherlock breathed, hands cupping John’s face, bringing him in for another passionate kiss.

John’s hands trailed along Sherlock’s ribs, tickling slightly, “Bed?” he asked, voice deep and aroused.

Nodding quickly, Sherlock moved to unzip John's jeans before undoing his own, kicking them to the floor and climbing onto the bed. John followed Sherlock's lead and joined him on the mattress, curling up beside Sherlock and running his hands through his hair as they kissed.

“I...I want you,” Sherlock whispered, seemingly embarrassed at his wanton display of arousal.

“I want you, too,” John assured him while kissing along Sherlock's long neck, “but not tonight; I’m afraid we won't last.”

Sherlock looked down his body at the erection which tented his designer boxer shorts and blushed, feeling exposed and nervous at the sight. John noticed Sherlock's apprehension and ran a hand down Sherlock's stomach, teasing his navel with a smile, “We can still do –  _ things, _ though.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded rapidly, “I want that.”

John smiled and climbed into the gap of Sherlock's thighs, laying flat across Sherlock's body so that their chests met and their cocks lined up perfectly. Sherlock's shocked and innocent gasp was enough to send John's cock twitching against his stomach as he rolled his hips and looked down at Sherlock's flushed face, his eyes closed and his mouth open.

Knowing that Sherlock was still a virgin in most senses of the word, John rolled his hips carefully - slowly, but with enough sensation to make both of their heads spin in pleasure. Sherlock's choked groan was enough to make John want to swallow every noise, making him bend and kiss Sherlock passionately as he rocked in a steady rhythm.

“John...” Sherlock gasped, eyes finally managing to open, “I...I want to see you. Please.”

Gently moving his hand, John kept Sherlock's gaze as he carefully pulled down both of their boxer shorts, freeing each of their erections to spring against one another with a pulse of pre-ejaculate and a throb of pleasure. Wrapping his hand around both shafts, John stroked softly, keeping his touch gentle as he created a tunnel for them to thrust into, their frenulums pressing against each other pleasurably.

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered, eyes wide in bliss as he looked up at John while his long, calloused fingers stroked across John's nose and cheekbones seemingly lost in wonderment, “John.”

“I'm here,” John promised, twisting his head so he could press a kiss to the inside of Sherlock's wrist.

“It feels good,” Sherlock gasped again, running his thumb over John's bottom lip, “It feels... _ wonderful _ .”

John smiled, a massively goofy grin as he puckered his lips and kissed Sherlock's thumb before picking up the pace with his hand, stroking them both together.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, eyes fluttering and hands practically dancing across John's chest and neck, touching and enjoying every inch of his lover's body as they moved together as one.

Sherlock had never really considered masturbation to be a pleasurable indulgence. It was simply an awkward and messy business which had to be endured every few months in order to keep his transport healthy. But with John here - hands wrapped around Sherlock's cock and what seemed like his entire being - Sherlock could have sobbed with pleasure. In fact may  _ actually  _ have been sobbing with pleasure for awhile now. His heart was pounding, noises whooshing in his ear as he stroked John's skin, feeling each sinewy muscle under the skin as a testament that John was real, that he was truly here and Sherlock wasn't just having another incredibly vivid, lucid dream.

“Out of your head,” John ordered gently, moving to kiss Sherlock softly on the temple, “I want you here, with me.”

Sherlock nodded rapidly in agreement, moving a hand to place it on top of John's own. His longer fingers brushed their leaking tips with every stroke, which kept pushing the intense pleasure higher and higher.

“Oh god,” John moaned, hips bucking harder and faster, more frenzied as his lust increased, “I've wanted this for so long, I can’t even think...God, how I’ve wanted you, Sherlock.”

“I love you, John,” Sherlock whispered in response, feeling his orgasm almost cresting, teetering on the knife's edge of pleasure, but waiting; needing something just a bit more to push him over the edge.

“I love you too, Sherlock,” John moaned, moving for a sloppy and uncoordinated kiss.

And that was it, that last thing he needed; Sherlock barely even had time to warn John of his climax before it was on him. Pleasure blinded him for a moment and he gasped out, scratching his nails down John's shoulder as he bucked and throbbed, pulsing thickly over John's fingers and his own stomach with a sigh of John's name.

John watched in amazement as Sherlock orgasmed in the most alluring and erotic moment of his life. Letting Sherlock's cock fall to his stomach, he stroked his own cock with increased speed and pressure, twisting his hand at the tip a few times before finally reaching his peak with a loud moan and a splattering of ejaculate which covered Sherlock's stomach and pubic hair. John shivered, rocking his hips in an attempt to prolong the pleasure before reaching down for a soft and tender kiss. After a few moments, however, John found that he was trembling too hard to keep upright and rolled himself off of Sherlock, collapsing onto his side and wrapping an arm around Sherlock's chest, “That was...”

“Magnificent,” Sherlock interrupted, his skin gleaming and his eyes bright, “I never expected it to feel like that.”

“I'm obviously a stud; I told you I have moves,” John laughed before turning serious and kissing Sherlock's shoulder, “I want to make you feel that good all the time. Always.”

Sherlock smiled a shyly and nodded, his hand brushing John's nose and cheekbone again before he sighed, “I need to clean up.”

John climbed from the bed, his cock still leaking and half hard hanging between his legs as he walked to the bathroom and returned with a wet towel, dotingly wiping Sherlock clean before wrapping the duvet over him. John put on his underwear and climbed back into bed, pulling Sherlock into the small spoon position and cuddling up to him.

“I heard the Aria da Capo,” Sherlock whispered, squeezing John's hand, “When I was...climaxing.”

“Oh?” John asked, not sure what Sherlock meant but smiling at the thought, “Is that good?”

“Very good,” Sherlock sighed happily, “It was like – something from another world. All of my other orgasms have been…different than that.”

“How so?” John frowned, listening intently.

Sherlock hesitated for a second before speaking clear and focussed, “I used to think that the best orgasms – the ones before – were good because time stopped and the world stood still. Everything was quiet and peaceful and there were no deductions or thoughts in my mind. Everything was dulled.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder as though checking that John was still listening before he continued, “but then I was sad afterwards. I was always sad afterwards.”

“Why?” John asked, his eyebrows knitted together.

“Because time  _ hadn't _ stopped. The world hadn't stopped and everything was continuing on as normal. Bad people were being bad, good people were being tedious, and I was completely alone,” Sherlock whispered emotionally, biting his lip and trailing his fingers lightly over John’s hand.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John breathed, feeling the weight of sadness in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t be sad, John,” Sherlock smiled genuinely, entwining his fingers into John’s now instead, “I don’t feel alone now.”

“I hope you never feel alone again,” John replied, kissing Sherlock’s nape before pulling the covers up over their shoulders, “I’ll always be here.  _ Always _ .”


	8. John Snaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What am I looking at here?” John asked, pacing back and forth, “Are we talking immediate execution, or just banishment?” For the life of him, John couldn’t believe he meant the question in a completely unironic fashion.
> 
> “I – I don't know,” Sherlock admitted, biting his lip, “I've never known anybody to do – that.”
> 
> “I just couldn't handle him talking like that. Like he knows us. Our relationship,” John explained rapidly, his heart pounding, “Like he knows me and my feelings.”
> 
> “I don't think he will kill you,” Sherlock said softly, a tone in his voice which didn't make John feel any better, “and, I don't think he will banish you. He knows that I will follow you. Wherever you go, I'll follow.”

John watched as Sherlock hummed happily, lifting his violin to his shoulder and playing a beautifully melodic tune. It had been three days since they had engaged in the passionate frottage in their shared bed, and each night since they had repeated the act until they were sticky and sated beside one another. Sherlock's attitude and behaviour had seemed to change almost immediately; the orgasmic bliss and intimacy seemingly acting as a balm for his issues.

Walking over to Sherlock, John pressed a kiss between Sherlock's shoulder blades and ran a hand down to his waist, “I'm popping to Tesco, do you want anything?”

“Wine gums,” Sherlock answered, turning with a grin, “Sweets.”

John smiled, nodding and then kissing Sherlock's lips, “Sweets it is.”

The walk to the shop wasn't far and John was thankful for the slightly cooler air as he walked, breathing in deeply before puffing it out. He had reached the corner and groaned, noticing the sleek black sedan waiting at the kerb.

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said coolly, “I hoped we might have a conversation.”

“I hoped to get milk and bread and go home,” John sighed in response before checking his watch, “Five minutes. That's all.”

Mycroft gave a bland smile at John but nodded curtly, opening the door for John to climb in beside him. The driver waited for a moment to allow John to put his seatbelt on before they were driving slowly through the busy London streets.

“My brother seems happy,” Mycroft began, looking down his nose at John.

“Well, I should hope so. He deserves to be happy,” John replied, staring Mycroft down.

Mycroft looked like he might argue, but simply sniffed and rolled his shoulders instead, “My brother is…different, as you know. He doesn't...”

“Mycroft,” John interrupted, holding up his hand, “if this is you trying to cause more shit between us, then I’d stop right now. Sherlock was already affected last time you filled his head with bullshit, so I don't want to hear it. We're happy. That's all you need to know.”

Sitting forward, John tapped the driver on the shoulder. The driver frowned but pulled the car over and watched in shock as John climbed out and stood on the pavement; nobody had ever left Mr. Holmes' car without permission, and the act itself shocked the driver.

“Go away, Mycroft,” John said, “Step meddling.”

Mycroft was about to speak - seemingly shocked, as well, at the abruptness and lack of control in the conversation - before John closed the door, slamming it and turning away with his collar turned up.

* * *

John was still angry after buying his groceries. He walked back to Baker Street with a ball of anger in the pit of his stomach, ready to tell Sherlock everything. Mycroft – John understood – was just a big brother looking out for his sibling, but the man was a menace.

Outside Baker Street sat Mycroft's car, forcing John to sigh angrily and stomp towards the front door. Inside, he could hear the squealing of Sherlock's violin and feel the tension in the air as he got closer and closer to the living room.

Mycroft was sitting in John's chair, his face a blank mask as he watched his brother angrily sawing away on his instrument. John walked in, putting the groceries down and heading to Sherlock's side to kiss him softly, taking his hands away from the violin, “You alright?”

“Yes. Of course,” Sherlock huffed, but John could tell that Sherlock was upset or frustrated, a tightening of Sherlock's chin told him everything he needed to know.

“Mycroft,” John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “why are you here?”

“I came to check on my brother,” the older Holmes said, his eyes soft as he looked over the pair, “Although, I must admit, I'm distressed at what I see.”

“Oh? And what's that?” John mumbled, stroking Sherlock's hand with his thumb.

“You have been...intimate,” Mycroft grimaced.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock gasped, staring at his brother, “I don't see how that is any concern of yours.”

“Is that why you're here? Coming over to spy on us?” John asked, anger bubbling up irrationally, “To check on your brother? That's bullshit. You want to be involved in every part of his life. Do you want the full details of our sex life? Hmm? I could probably get you a sample if you're interested. Go the full hog!”

“John!” Sherlock gasped again, eyes flicking between both men in shock.

“If you believe that I am interested in your...dalliance, then you are mistaken,” Mycroft sneered, his nose haughtily in the air, “I am not concerned about the act itself, but rather...”

“Rather what?” John asked, taking a step forward and watching as Mycroft gathered himself to his feet, their eyes battling for dominance. Neither willing to step down.

“Rather the closeted, sex obsessed,  _ straight man  _ that my brother has taken to bedding,” Mycroft answered, a snide smile on his face.

John licked his lips, looking back at Sherlock before quickly and without thinking sending his fist directly into Mycroft's nose. There was a gasp from behind him as Sherlock rushed over, getting between them both and staring at John in horror, terror in his face.

“What have you done?” Sherlock whispered, his eyes wide.

“I'm sick of him! I'm sick of his constant fucking interference,” John insisted, clenching his hand and grimacing at the pain as he noticed that he had popped a knuckle.

“You will regret this,” Mycroft seethed, glaring at John and then reaching for his handkerchief from his pocket to press against his bleeding nose, “I can guarantee it, Doctor Watson.”

“Mycroft…please, no. Please don't take him away from me,” Sherlock pleaded, eyes flicking to John and then back to his brother “Please.”

“I will deal with you,” Mycroft glared at Sherlock, pressing his kerchief harder against his nose with a wince he barely hid.

John suddenly felt a shiver of cold air up his spine, like somebody walking over his grave. Hoping it wasn't a premonition, John rubbed at his face anxiously, “Mycroft…I'm really sorry.”

Mycroft turned to stare at John, a barely concealed scowl on his lips before he turned and walked out of Baker Street, his umbrella tick-tick-ticking against the flooring of the stairs.

Sherlock looked at John aghast, looking surprisingly scared as he sat down and put his head in his hands.

“What am I looking at here?” John asked, pacing back and forth, “Are we talking immediate execution, or just banishment?” For the life of him, John couldn’t believe he meant the question in a completely unironic fashion.

“I – I don't know,” Sherlock admitted, biting his lip, “I've never known anybody to do – that.”

“I just couldn't handle him talking like that. Like he knows us. Our relationship,” John explained rapidly, his heart pounding, “Like he knows me and my feelings.”

“I don't think he will kill you,” Sherlock said softly, a tone in his voice which didn't make John feel any better, “and, I don't think he will banish you. He knows that I will follow you. Wherever you go, I'll follow.”

“I'm sorry,” John whispered, walking to Sherlock and wrapping his arms around him, “I'm so sorry.”

“It was – quite impressive, really,” Sherlock chuckled, looking up at John with teary eyes.

“I should speak to him. Where will he go? Diogenes?” John suggested, watching as Sherlock nodded in agreement.

* * *

The Diogenes was as imposing as John remembered. The pillared building so expensive looking that John felt like he would be kicked out for even approaching in his Marks and Spencers jumper. Reaching the front desk, John cleared his throat and slipped a note to the concierge, he wasn't proficient in the sign language that the club used and he didn't have Sherlock with him to translate.

The man behind the counter, John was confident, was at least 120 years old. His veiny hands lifted the note so close to his face that John was worried that he might poke himself in the eye. Finally nodding, the man gestured for John to follow him, taking him through the various lounges and twists and turns until they reached the private floors which Mycroft used as his home away from home.

Mycroft looked up at the knock and rolled his eyes; he had expected John to come grovelling, but he hadn't expected it to be so soon. Mycroft's eyes had begun to blacken on the journey back from his brothers, and now he was sat with two rather purple crescents around his eyes as he strained to focus on his various documents which littered the desk. Noticing John, Mycroft nodded at the concierge before gesturing for John to enter and close the door.

John took a seat in one of the offered chairs. The two leather wing backs were in front of a roaring fire, and Mycroft seated himself in the other one, pouring two fingers of scotch whiskey into two tumblers before handing it to John and then sighing at the burn as he swallowed.

“I'm really sorry,” John began, clearing his throat and rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, “I didn't – that was out of order.”

“Yes, it was,” Mycroft agreed, not giving anything away in his expression.

“Please don't deport me,” John mumbled.

Mycroft chuckled and shook his head, “I'm not going to deport you.”

John exhaled in relief and smiled at Mycroft, “I'm sorry about your face.”

“As my brother used to tell me regularly: it is not my best feature,” Mycroft sighed, swirling the liquid in the glass before focussing on John with a slow blink, “What do you know of a Sebastian Wilkes?”

“Wilkes?” The doctor responded, racking his brain as to why the name sounded so familiar, until finally he remembered the Blind Banker case and hummed, “Wanker Banker. I thought he was a cock.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrow and then sighing, “at least we have found something we can agree on.”

John took a sip of his whisky and winced at the heat in his throat, carefully keeping an eye on Mycroft's features, “What does Sebastian have to do with anything?”

“I'm sure that Sherlock told you that they were at University together,” Mycroft explained, crossing his legs and sitting back elegantly in his chair, “Sherlock insisted upon staying in a small flat subsidised by our family. Sebastian came to visit one day and never left.”

“What?” John blinked rapidly, frowning, “They weren't…they weren't  _ a couple _ ; Sherlock would have told me.”

“No, John,” Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes at John's stupidity, “or, at least, not a romantic one, as such. No, their relationship was more – monetary based.”

“Right, pretend for a second that I'm an imbecile and stop talking in riddles,” John huffed, clenching his fist and then relaxing it when he noticed Mycroft looking at it, “Sorry.”

“Sebastian is from a good family; the Wilkes name has been around for a long time. A family of bankers, wealthy ones. In fact, our second cousin is married to Sebastian's brother Ted. Odious man,” Mycroft sneered before continuing the story, “What we didn't realise was just how much terribly poor finance the good name hid. So Sherlock became friends with Sebastian, Sebastian would visit Sherlock's flat and eat his food, use his electricity, and heat for showers. This was something we could live with; they were teenagers after all.”

“But it got worse?” John guessed.

“Quite,” Mycroft nodded, “Things started to go missing from the flat. Bits of Sherlock's jewellery, his TV, that sort of thing. Sherlock didn't tell us, simply replaced them and they went missing again. Sherlock was too intrigued with his new found friendship that he didn't want to rock the boat. He had been terribly bullied at school, you see - always the outsider - so when somebody paid attention to him, Sherlock gripped onto it tightly.”

John sighed sadly, remembering the flash of upset in Sherlock's eyes in Dartmoor when he spat out, “I don't have friends.”

“Then Sebastian upped the ante, so to speak,” Mycroft continued, taking a sip of his drink and rolling it on his tongue before speaking again, “He began using Sherlock to make drugs. He brought in cocaine through his contacts and had Sherlock add the extra bulking agents before bagging it up. Then it got worse: Sherlock started to manufacture drugs, ecstasy mostly.”

“No,” John gasped, hand over his mouth, “Why would he do that?”

“Mostly because Sebastian asked him to. Told him that Sherlock was the greatest chemist and the only person he could trust – the usual grooming techniques,” Mycroft said angrily, “So Sherlock did.”

“Shit,” John whispered, shaking his head sadly, “What happened?”

“Sherlock attempted to make a hybrid of drugs whilst under the influence.” Mycroft explained, rolling his shoulders, “Silly boy should have known better, but he took the cocaine and heroin together and promptly overdosed. He was almost emaciated at this point, weighing barely 100 pounds, and his body couldn't manage the dose. That  _ man  _ found him on the floor, foaming and choking.”

“Sebastian?” John asked.

“Yes. He called an ambulance, but not before taking Sherlock's wallet and credit cards. When Sherlock was released from the hospital, we had a £12,000 bill on our doormat. He had gone out and spent my brother’s money,  _ our money,  _ on lobster dinners and designer clothing,” Mycroft said, eyes hard with fury.

“Hold on, wait a minute...” John stopped Mycroft with a hand in the air, “is this – is this why you don't want me and him to be together? Because you're worried I'll rip him off?”

“No. The money is of very little value,” Mycroft waved his hand away impatiently, “but Sherlock's heart…that's something altogether more priceless.”

“Mycroft,” John said softly, putting his drink to one side and scooting forward in his chair, “you know me. I know we don't always see eye to eye, but I love your brother. I adore him, in fact. It's not – it's not the sex,” he blushed and cleared his throat, “It's not money or fame or because I'm a bloody martyr. I genuinely love him, Mycroft. I do.”

Mycroft's eyes skimmed over John, reading every inch. John relaxed his face, attempting to show Mycroft exactly what he thought before the older Holmes straightened up and put down his drink, entwining his fingers together in front of his face.

“I believe you,” Mycroft said eventually, “You are a stubborn, annoying, irritating little man…but you make my brother happy.”

“Er…thanks?” John spluttered, half smiling, “I think?”

“However, know this,” Mycroft said, leaning forward, “I had no choice but to let Sebastian get away with his misdeeds. I was not yet in the position I am in now. I had to watch as my brother clawed his way back to sanity, but I can guarantee you this: it will not go well for you if you break his heart.”

“I agree,” John nodded, “I honestly think my heart would break, too.”

Mycroft turned his nose up at the sentiment before gesturing to John that he could leave. Mycroft stood and walked back to his desk, sighing as he looked down at his papers. John stood up, finished his drink in one gulp, and then walked to the doorway.

“Oh, and John?” Mycroft said calmly, waiting until John looked up at him, “If you touch me again - even _ contemplate _ the notion of putting your hands on me - I'll take your hands.”

John swallowed, feeling an icy chill up his spine once more before he nodded and quickly left Mycroft's office. If he walked faster than usual, it was hardly noticed.


End file.
